


Summertime

by erebones



Category: Protector of the Small - Tamora Pierce, Tortall - Tamora Pierce
Genre: M/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Platonic Romance, Teen Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:38:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erebones/pseuds/erebones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lord Wyldon of Cavall and Stefan Groomsman have a strange and convoluted friendship that goes back many years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. As Natural as Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After his father’s untimely death, Wyldon finds strength and wisdom from his commoner friend.

Wyldon can’t remember why he decided to go riding. It hadn’t been hot so early in the morning, when he’d rolled out of bed after yet another sleepless night. At least he doesn’t think so. Everything is muddled, like a long line of arithmetic that has slid off its parchment onto the desk in a meaningless pile. Looking ahead through the trees, he can see the back of the palace, flanked by stables and practice yards and barracks. Cursing the heat under his breath, he scrubs his damp hair with his sleeve and urges Starfire out of the relative cover of the Royal Forest’s spreading eaves. It isn’t fair to ask her to trot in this unbearable heat, but the thirst for a brush of air against his face is so strong it hurts.

The sun scalds him, trickles of sweat sliding down his back like rivulets of snowmelt. It feels as if like a giant stove has been placed on the saddle behind him, breathing its inner fire directly onto his skin. Not a breath of wind stirs as he lifts an arm and wiped his slick forehead, and he huddles miserably in the saddle until the shadow of the stables finally falls across his face. With stiff motions – he’s been riding for almost three hours straight – he dismounts and leads Starfire into the stifling dimness.

“He’s dead, you know,” he murmurs aloud, talking to his mare as he untacks her. His fingers move mechanically over the buckles, stripping off cinch, saddle, blanket, bridle. “He’s dead, and I’ll be the Lord when I turn eighteen.”

It's why he's here, at the palace, lying awake at nights and riding endlessly during the day. Duke Gareth had summoned him to his office two days before he was to take the pages on their annual summer camping trip.

 _“Page Wyldon.” The even, slightly nasally voice was unusually tender. “I’ve received a letter from your mother.”_ _He extended the missive, and Wyldon took it in trembling hands. He knew what was coming. They’d all known, since last fall when he left for page training. The healers called it cancer, but Wyldon knew it was just another name for the Black God._

_“You’ll be excused from your summer duties,” the Duke said kindly. The condolences hiding behind his words felt wooden in Wyldon’s chest. “You are welcome to go home, or live here for the summer as you choose.”_

_“Your Grace.” Wyldon bowed and escaped, choking back emotion. A knight did not cry._

Wyldon wishes he’d been allowed to go with Duke Gareth and the others. It would have given him something to do, at least, something to take his mind off the ache that gnawed inside him. It's bad enough that he can’t go home. The funeral had been conducted quickly, and being back at the manor house even for a day had been unbearable. His mother, stiff-mouthed and empty-eyed, his sister endlessly weeping, the servants grim and silent – it was a mourning house, and his father seemed to haunt the old, musty halls with his fading memory. Here at the palace, at least, he has a few friends, he has his horse; and he can pretend, at least for a little while, that it never happened, that his father is alive and well, still managing the fief from his circular office that faces south toward the rolling hill-country.

Wyldon turns to fetch a curry-comb from the bucket hanging on the stall, and jerks his hand away reflexively. Someone else is holding it out to him. Slowly, feeling sullen, he looks up at the other boy leaning over the partition.

“I heard,” the boy says, his sandpaper-and-straw voice an amalgam of adolescence and adulthood.

“I’m sure you did,” Wyldon snapps, snatching the curry-comb and stumping around to the other side of the horse. “So what?”

The other boy rolls his eyes, somehow managing to look superior in spite of the unruly thatch of straw-like hair and the twig of hay dangling from his lips. “You’ve been ridin’ since five bells, Wyl-boy. I may be common, but I ain’t stupid.”

The page grinds his teeth together, keeping his head low as he moves the comb in vicious, tight circles over Starfire’s soaked hide. The mare leanes into his efforts, enjoying the extra attention. “It’s none of your business, Stefan, so butt out.”

Stefan waits patiently until his friend has worked his way around to Starfire’s near side; then, with the languid ease of a barn cat, he hops over the partition and grabs Wyldon by the shoulders. “You’re a damn fool, Wyldon of Cavall,” he informs the younger boy calmly in his city drawl. “You cain’t be an unfeelin’ lump of wood forever.”

Wyldon stands stiffly, his plain face mulish as he stares into the taller boy’s protuberant blue eyes. “Knights don’t cry,” he tells Stefan, voice shaking slightly.

Stefan cracks a grin, and the stalk of wheat never falls from his mouth. “Shore they do, lad. I seen it, alla time. His Grace done cried, when his horse broke its legs and had to be put down. M’lord of Haryse, too, when ’is mare died givin’ birth two years gone, and I even saw t’ King cry when Queen Lianne lost ’ _er_ bairn.” He pokes Wyldon in his narrow chest, the smile falling away. “All men cry, Wyl-boy, if they ain’t too tom-fool stubborn to admit they grieve. ’S natural as breathin’.”

Stefan just barely keeps from sighing with relief as Wyldon’s head falls forward and his shoulders begin to shake. His young friend is stubborn and prideful, more so than most nobles he’s known in his fourteen years, but the young hostler can tell it's all a show. Wyldon’s emotions run deep, and suppressing them isn’t healthy. So while quiet sobs wrack the page’s body, Stefan wraps his arms around Wyldon’s shoulders and holds him tightly in the privacy of the stall, while outside the sun blazes down unforgiving and unrelenting on the palace proper. 


	2. The Great Debators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wyldon and Stefan discuss Alanna's revelation, with explosive results.

“What do _you_ think about lady knights?” Wyldon asks, keeping his eyes trained on the ceiling. Beside him, the lanky hostler blows a stray wisp of hair from his brow and shifts in the straw.

“I was wonderin’ when you were goin’ t’ask."

Wyldon jabs Stefan in the side with his elbow, and the hostler rolls over, gasping with laughter. “You could’ve asked me to stop,” the young knight reminds him, offended his friend hasn't yet stopped him in his rambling attempts to work up to the subject. “I just… had to get it off my chest.”

“I know.” Stefan settles back, arms behind his head, and watches the dust motes float dreamily around his nose. “I wasna surprised, honestly. George knew, and Johnny – ’scuse me, Prince Jonathan – knew.”

A well-bred snort interrupts him. “I still fail to see how you can serve two kings.”

Stefan shruggs, a rustle in the hay. “They govern two different worlds. Roald’s as outta place in t’ Lower City as George is in palace finery. I owe ’Is Majesty my allegiance, but George is my friend. The king who can claim his subject’s friendship is powerful indeed.”

“You can’t tell me this George of yours is friends with those whose ears he takes?”

Stefan chortles. “I ’spose not. But what I was sayin’ – I had my suspicions, as did we all. An’ you can’t deny she did the realm a favor by doin’ away wit’ His Grace.”

“She did,” Wyldon admits sourly, his mouth twisting as though he's tasted something sour. “But she has the Gift.”

Stefan shrugs again. “Aye, so? She cain’t make her muscles grow wit’ magic any more’n you can, and Eleni – George’s healer mum – said she – Alanna – will have trouble nursin’ her own children. Comes from bindin’ herself flat for nigh on eight years. That’s not magic, that’s blood and sweat and _work_ , much as you or any other page and squire done.”

“I still say she’s one in a million,” Wyldon replies stubbornly. “Women – all right, _most_ women – aren’t fit for knighthood.”

“Maybe so. I ain’t learned like you. But it seems to me that females ought to be able to defend their country in any way they like, same as men. They used to, you know – Sir Myles was tellin’ the King an’ Queen, there was lady knights less than a century ago.”

“And they forbade it because women were a distraction in battle.”

“Maybe men are t’ fools for getting’ distracted, eh?”

“Men _died_ , Stefan! Good men, men who could have led armies and conquered nations –”

“As if Tortall didn’t do enough o’ that, back these past few decades.”

“Can you imagine girls training to be pages? It would be chaos! Crying when they got rapped on the knuckles, flagging in their studies when they started mooning over boys or got their monthlies, fights breaking out among the boys if they’ve got their eye on a certain girl…”

Stefan barks a laugh. “I s’pose you didna hear, then? Sir Raoul and Sir Gary was sent on border patrol when they dueled over a lady’s glove. Didna have to be a page or squire, she was just herself.”

“Which _proves_ my point!” Wyldon exclaims, sitting up excitedly. “Girls flirt, they simper and preen. I have a little sister, I know how they are around men. And that’s not just a distraction for the boys, it’s a detriment to their own training.”

“I didna hear nothin’ of Alanna simperin’ nor preenin’.” Sighing, Stefan rolls so that he faces Wyldon, head propped on one fist. “You’re set in your ways, Wyl-boy, an’ I ain’t sayin’ it’s a bad thing. Ye know what you believe and why you believe it. But think, hey? Times are changin’. Sir Alanna may have ridden off into the sunset, but the King and Queen are makin’ it legal for girls to train for their knighthood again.”

“How do you know _that_?” Wyldon demands.

Stefan taps the side of his nose with a grin. “I’m the eyes and ears of the Rogue in the palace, Wyl, ye know that.”

“I know. I just forget how much you hear sometimes,” he mutters, lying back down.

“So if girls can train for knighthood, why, someday ye could be in command over a lady knight, or fighting side by side with one,” Stefan goes on. “What then? Will ye push her down, put her in the back where she’s safe, treat her like a fragile invalid? Like someone who’s less than human?”

“I _don’t_ _know_ ,” Wyldon scowls. “I’ll – I’ll refuse to work with her. I’ll put her under someone else’s command.”

The hostler chuckles softly. “Ye cain’t avoid it, Wyl-boy. That’s the mark of a coward.”

“I am _not_ a coward!” Wyldon hisses. “You just listen, _stable_ - _hand._ I am a knight of the realm and a noble peer. For eight years I’ve learned about the Code of Chivalry, and history, and literature, things you don’t know anything about. I am _more than entitled to my opinion_.”

For a moment there is silence in the hayloft, and then Stefan pushes himself up, his breath puffing whitely in the chill air. “I got duties to see to, milord.” He tugs his forelock, easygoing face unreadable, and turns to climb down the ladder.

“Stefan!” Wyldon stopps short, feeling an iron hand seize his throat. His friend pauses, but he can’t seem to force the words out. After a moment’s pause, Stefan continues down the rungs until only the wispy, untidy top of his head is visible.

“Ye cain’t say it, can ye?” he whispers.

Wordless, choking on his own pride and unable to swallow, Wyldon shakes his head. Then Stefan is gone, and he is alone in the loft with no one but himself for company. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sun + discussions + summer + friends + riding


	3. Down Memory Lane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wyldon apologizes, but it doesn't ring true.

“Stefan! Is that you?”

The young man straightens, pushing a flop of straw-blond hair from his face, and grins. “By the Trickster! If it ain’t Sir Alanna, back from adventurin’!” He sets down his pitchfork and lets her jump on him, nearly staggering under her enthusiasm.

“You look so dashing,” she tells him, laughing. “How old are you now?”

“Twenty-six,” comes the bashful reply. To cover his embarrassment, Stefan reaches out and ruffles her coppery hair. “When are you marryin’ our Rogue and makin’ an honest man out of him?”

To his intense surprise, she flushes scarlet and lookes away. “We _are_ married.”

Stefan nearly chokes on the ever-present stem of hay that dangles from his mouth. “Ye’re _what?_ ”

“We got married. In the Desert.” She grins up at him. “Why are you so shocked? You and ’Fingers have been waiting for it to happen for years.”

“I know.” He shrugs, avoiding her lively purple eyes. Sometimes they unnerve him, though he'll never tell George that. “’Tis strange, is all, seein’ Squire Alan all grown and married off.”

She laughs again, shaking her head, and Stefan reaches for his discarded pitchfork. “All right, I’ll let you get back to work,” she says apologetically. “It’s good to see you, Stefan.”

“And you, milady,” he answers, dodging her swipe of indignation at the title. He thrusts his pitchfork into a bale of hay and pauses, some sixth sense warning him of impending danger. But what can possibly be dangerous here? Swinging around, he watches Alanna’s small, muscular form moving towards the door, silhouetted by the summer sun. Then she stops abruptly, smack in the middle of the doorway; Stefan could tell by the set of her body that she's already on the defense. He hefts the pitchfork in his strong hands, ready to back her up if necessary.

But it isn’t Duke Roger, back from the grave a second time; it isn’t some monster out of story and song. It's just another knight, tall and broad-shouldered, dressed for riding. His face and badge are disguised in the shadow thrown by the stable’s roof, but Stefan has an uncomfortable feeling that he knows who it is. Leaning against a sturdy stall door and turning his face away, he strains to hear what's being said.

“Lady knight.” Crisp and cool, stinging like a whiplash, the honorific is turned into an ugly word.

“My lord.” Alanna’s voice is tight with barely-controlled fury; she's a blazing fire to the other’s deep winter.

It doesn’t take a lot of effort to guess the identity of the other knight. The Lioness is just as famed for her dislike of the Lord of Cavall as he iss for his opposition of her. Alanna and Wyldon have been arch-enemies for as long as her identity has been revealed, and whenever they meet, sparks are sure to fly. More than once Alanna’s friends have had to restrain her when she speaks with him, and it's well-noted that Wyldon makes a hobby of provoking her infamous temper.

“If you’ll excuse me?” Icily ironic, Wyldon bows and moves around the woman blocking his way. Apparently he's not in the mood to spar, verbally or literally. After an injured sniff, Alanna stalks outside, leaving Stefan entirely alone except for the horses. And Wyldon, of course.

The hostler stabs his bale of hay with a little more force than necessary and heaves it over his shoulder, pointedly ignoring Wyldon’s entrance. With brisk movements he tips the hay bale into an empty stall and begins to spread the bedding. But all the focus in the world can’t take away the unsettling sensation of eyes on the back of his neck, prickling under his skin.

“Stefan.” It's soft and almost plaintive, so different from the cold arrogance of a moment ago. He cannot resist it. Straightening, he braces the tines of his pitchfork against the floor and looks through the open stall door to the man standing outside it.

“How may I be of service, milord?”

Those impassive cheeks twitch to life. “Your speaking has improved, at any rate, though you’re still as stubborn as ever.”

“You was always t’ stubborn one, if I recall rightly.” Stefan lifts his chin. “I have work to do, milord.”

“I’m sure you do.” Wyldon folds his arms, a subconscious show of discomfort that Stefan knows all too well. “I won’t take much of your time. I just…” His brows flinch into a lightning-quick frown, and smooth again. “I just wanted to apologize.”

Pale brows, hidden by his thatch of summer-light hair, rocket high enough to make his blue eyes bulge. “Apologize, hey? For what?”

Wyldon scowl. “You know very well what.”

He manages an easy shrug, and hefts his pitchfork again. “I might, but then, I might not.”

“Mithros, Stefan, have you been taking lessons from Sir Myles? You sound like a bloody theologian.” Wyldon’s mouth snapps shut, and he looks away. “I’m sorry. I really am. You’re entitled to your opinions as much as I.”

Stefan squints at him disbelievingly. “ _That’s_ what you’re apologizin’ for? For disagreein’ with me?”

“Well, yes,” comes the startled reply. “Isn’t that what you were looking for?”

The hostler barks a laugh, and continues spreading hay. “I wasna ‘looking for’ anything.”

“Then what do you _want?_ ” Wyldon exclaims, bracing his hands against the stall’s support beams. “I apologized, I admitted I was in the wrong. What else is there?”

Stefan throws down his pitchfork and strides over to stand nose-to-nose with his old friend. “I would be a hypocrite if’n I had my own opinion and refused to let ye have yours. I have no problem wit’ that. But that day in t’ hay loft, ye threw out eight years of friendship for t’ sake of your _pride_ , Wyl. We practically grew up together, but in the end, ye were t’ noble and I was t’ commoner, and that made all the difference, didn’t it?” He stops, breathing heavily, and forces his eyes to stay trained on Wyldon’s. Letting himself look anywhere else – like at his mouth, for instance – is out of the question.

The knight’s face tightens, but whether from anger or shame it's impossible to tell. Then, out of the blue, “I’m getting married later this summer.”

Stefan rocks back on his heels, thrown off by the sudden change in topic. “Aye? To what poor lass?”

Wyldon snorts. “Vivienne of Genlith. And she’s hardly a ‘poor lass.’ If our courtship is any indication, she’ll be ordering me about instead of the other way around.”

“An’ that’s how it should be,” Stefan mutters, turning back to his work.

“I want you to come to the wedding.”

The hostler freezes. “What?”

“I want you to come to the wedding,” Wyldon repeats. “Whatever happened between us, you were my best friend. My brother.” A little bit of the stiffness falls from his voice as he adds, “Please say you will.”

Stefan hesitates, feeling his gut clench. He can remember how they met, more than ten years ago now. Wyldon had been a short, scrawny eleven to Stefan's lanky thirteen, with a plain face and serious dark eyes. When he handed the reins of his horse to Stefan under the watchful eye of his father’s man-at-arms, Wyldon had stopped, hands curling protectively over the strips of leather.

_“She doesn’t like new places,” he said, perfectly solemn. “She’ll be lonely.”_

_Stefan scratched his head, glancing nervously at the man-at-arms and then back to the boy. He was still relatively new to the stables, and he wasn’t sure how to handle homesick mares – or pages. Especially pages. “I’ll see t’ her,” he said at last, trying to speak nicely. “I’ve a nice pony she’ll like. I’ll put ’er in with him.”_

_The boy nodded. “All right. She’ll like that.” He let go of the reins, but still hesitated. “I’m Wyldon of Cavall.”_

_Stefan bowed. “Stefan.”_

_Wyldon cocked his head. “Just Stefan?”_

_The stable-boy’s lips twitched. “Aye.”_

The man-at-arms had come up then and taken Wyldon by the shoulder, leading him away, but Stefan had been heartened by the stubborn set of the boy’s shoulders. He’d made one friend, at least, and that was a start. Stefan hoped for the lad’s sake that he would make more. A page’s life was no summer picnic, that was certain.

And their friendship had grown from there. With his fingers gripping the pitchfork handle, eyes unfocused, Stefan lets his mind wander to the long hours cleaning tack together, or going into the city on their days off, Stefan introducing his young friend to the Court of the Rogue. Then the death of his father during his second year, and Stefan sharing the loss of his own family to red fever when he was only a child; Wyldon expounding on the Code of Chivalry to a puzzled, unimpressed Stefan in the hay loft. Lying on the stable roof, watching the stars for the last time before Wyldon rode off to be a squire, and the fumbling, awkward touches and kisses as two boys explored feelings they only half-understood.

_“We’re friends, aren’t we?”_

_“Aye. Dunno what your knight-master would say, o’ course…”_

_“He doesn’t have to know. Besides, it’s not against the law to have commoner friends.”_

_“I know. He’s just…”_

_“Conservative. Aye – I mean, yes.” Nervous laughter. “But so am I – so is my father, at any rate. And he’s a Minchi. I’ll learn so much with him. Almost as much as you taught me, maybe.”_

_Stefan swallowed and felt for his hand in the darkness of the hay loft. When he found it, Wyldon gripped his fingers hard in return, and didn’t let go. “Ye’ll be ’round the palace now and agin?”_

_“I hope so.” His voice trembled slightly as he whispered to the ceiling, “I’ll miss you.”_

_“An’ I’ll miss ye, Wyl-boy. But ye’ll always have me to come back to.”_

_On impulse, Wyldon shifted in the hay and wrapped his arms around Stefan, burying his face in his chest. “I know. And I’ll always come back.”_

_“I’ll hold ye to that.” Stefan’s arms snaked around his waist, and his breath stirred the hair falling across Wyldon’s forehead. The scent of sweet hay and apples filled the squire’s nose, and he had a sudden compulsion to see what they tasted like._

_On Stefan’s mouth, they tasted like summertime and freedom._

Stefan sighs, and turned back. “I can’t. I’ve got duties here, and wit’ the Rogue. And ye don’t want a commoner sittin’ amongst those fine folk when ye say your vows, I guarantee it.”

Wyldon nods unhappily. “I understand. I –” he grits his teeth and pushes on, “I _am_ sorry, Stefan.”

The hostler nods slowly. “Me too.” But when Wyldon moves as if to take a step into the hay, Stefan turns away again and returns to his work. A friendship between a knight and a hostler isn’t appropriate, even if he hadn’t been about to get married, and they both know it. Stefan works busily, even fussily, taking extra care with the hay until he's satisfied. When he looks up again, Wyldon is gone.

 _It’s for t’ best_ , he reminds himself, and tries not to feel the hand that squeezes his heart so painfully. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somewhere new + freedom + picnic + fruit + riding


	4. Friends with Benefits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the Palace after two years abroad with his knight-master, Wyldon joins Stefan in the exploration of dormant feelings.

“Where are we going?” Squire Wyldon demands, resenting his own ignorance.

“Somewhere new."

All is darkness to him. A blindfold blocks out the sun, though he can hear the tell-tale rustle of leaves and undergrowth as the crisp autumn breeze dances in the boughs of the Royal Forest. Beneath his tripping feet the path winds on, hard-packed earth laced with roots that reach up treacherous fingers to catch the hapless unawares. Briars snag in his clothes and hair, and fallen leaves crunch and shush underfoot. If he strains above the sounds of their passage through the forest, he can just make out the vague chuckle of water running somewhere ahead.

Wyldon is well and truly lost.

“Here.” With hands made rough from hard work and long days, Stefan unties the blindfold (a clean rag meant for polishing tack) and tucks it into his belt. At his side, Wyldon’s stoic face slipps into awe.

“It’s beautiful.”

Stefan hooks his thumbs into his belt loops and rocks back on his heels, pleased. “I know.”

On impulse, Wyldon throws himself on the ground and rolls over onto his back, limbs stretched endlessly over the grass. Looking up, he can see the crisp blue sky peeping between boughs of fire. Beneath him the grass spreads emerald-green like a carpet from a fairytale, and all around is the sound of water tumbling over rocks. It's like a secret grotto all their own, hidden away from the rest of the world.

“I feel like I’ve been away forever,” Wyldon sighs, closing his eyes and wriggling down into the grass. He kicks off his boots and pushes them away, digging his toes into the cold earth.

Stefan just nods, still looking thoughtfully down at the boy spread out on the ground. Wyldon has grown tremendously in the past two years, though he'ss still very much all arms and legs. Still, Stefan can tell by the way his neck and torso are thickening that he is approaching manhood. His hands and feet, always small and rather stringy, have become longer and broader; his palms are heavily calloused and criss-crossed with lines. His mop of brown hair had been shorn off somewhere along his travels, and is now cropped close to his head, showing the strong bones of his face and a small, pocked scar above one eyebrow where he fell from a tree as a child.

“What are you looking at?” Wyldon demands, breaking Stefan from his musings. He kicks out at the young hostler playfully, catching him on the ankle. “Sit down before you fall down.”

Stefan sits, though his face doesn’t crease with laughter. Instead he crosses his legs, wrapping his arms protectively around his knees, and looks at the ground.

“Are we friends, Wyl?”

Wyldon laughs the open laugh of a boy with no cares. “I thought we covered that before I left to go squiring, Stef.”

“We covered a lot o’ things afore you went squirin’ – the least of them bein’ friendship."

Wyldon narrows his eyes, lifting his head from the grass. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Friends don’t kiss, Wyl.” Stefan scrubs a hand through his already-flyaway hair in agitation. “Friends don’t touch each other like that. Friends talk, and run, and ride together. They don’t do… _that._ ”

Wyldon’s cheek shifts to rest against the grass, and his fingers tear up the green filaments idly. “We’re friends. More than friends, maybe, but still friends at the heart of it. Do you –” He stops, flushing, but pushes on doggedly, “Did you not… like it?”

Stefan snorts. “There wasnae ever a question o’ that, Wyl-boy.”

The squire’s lips curve into a small smile as he meets Stefan’s eyes. “Good.”

With a tender hand, Stefan reaches out and smooths his fingers down the column of Wyldon’s throat, a splash of summer-tanned brown against the collar of his shirt. Beneath his hand, Wyldon swallows hard, and his pulse leaps under Stefan’s thumb. The hostler’s cheek jerks into a half-smile. And when Wyldon opens his mouth to say something, Stefan leans down and silences his lips with a kiss.

It isn’t like the kiss of two years ago. That kiss had been tentative and inexperienced, with unsure movements and shaking hands. Wyldon’s heart had nearly jumped out his chest with a giddy combination of terror and excitement, and a good portion of those few minutes of boyish intimacy had been wiped blank by his own insecurity. But this – oh, how different this is! Stefan’s mouth is firm and certain, the sandpaper rasp of his unshaven chin sending prickles down his spine. His hostler’s hands smooth over Wyldon’s tunic to his belt, tugging the fabric free to slip beneath and run the tips of his fingers over his flat belly. And when his tongue pushes into Wyldon’s mouth, the younger boy jerks with surprise and pleasure, eyes popping open.

“Been practicing on the Palace maids, I see,” he gasps, laughter turning into a moan as Stefan transfers his mouth to Wyldon’s neck.

“Purely for t’ sake of research,” Stefan mumbles, fingers working quickly on buttons and laces as he kisses his way down Wyldon’s chest. The squire assists him, and soon he's pulled off his shirt and tunic, and is lying half-bare beneath the confident ministrations of his friend.

“What if someone finds us?” murmurs Wyldon, using the last shred of his self-control as he reachs down to hold Stefan’s head still against the half-open hem of his breeches. For all it's such a cool autumn day, every inch of skin seems to be on fire. Under Stefan’s touch he shudders and burns, sweat dampening his brow and the smooth line of his back where it arches away from the grass.

Stefan grins recklessly. “They won’t. This is _our_ place, Wyl-boy. They won’t." And then his hand is inside Wyldon’s breeches and the squire throws back his head, eyes trained sightlessly on the crisp blue sky peering down curiously from above.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sun + sweat + outdoors + trees + somewhere new


	5. Only in Public

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two old friends banter on a lazy summer afternoon.

“Mithros,” Wyldon mutters under his breath, feeling his knee twinge in discomfort as he swings his leg over the saddle and lands lightly on the ground. At his side, Cavall’s Heart snorts and turns her head, eyeing him with something resembling concern. “Never mind, girl,” he tells her, looping the reins through his fingers. “It’s what happens when you get old.”

“Talkin’ to your horse again, milord? You know, th’ Duke might call that a sign of insanity.”

Looking ahead into the relative dimness of the royal stables, Wyldon allows a slight smile to alleviate his normally taciturn expression. “Queenscove knows very well that any symptoms of insanity I may express are merely harmless side-effects of working every day with a passel of half-grown trouble-makers – his son especially.”

Stefan grins through the straw thrust between his teeth. “A pity the youngest of ’em is the most tryin’. I never did see how ye could put up with the lad.”

“Neither do I,” Wyldon mutters, slipping a halter over Heart’s elegant face and hitching her to the outside of her stall. With fingers that are still nimble in spite of their age, he undoes the buckles of her bridle and slides it off from beneath the halter, hanging it and the reins on the hook beside the stall door. Neither he nor Heart bat an eyelash when Stefan dumps a bale of hay just under the hook and straddles it, arms folded across the slight paunch that was his belly.

“Heard about t’ bandits.”

Wyldon ignores him for a few minutes, busying himself with the saddle and blanket. A barrel stands nearby; dipping his hand into it, he pulls out an apple and began to slice it with his belt knife. Heart, ears pricked, waits patiently as he feeds them to her one by one, teeth chomping delightedly on the offering.

“I was a bloody fool, Stef,” he says at last, giving Heart the last apple and wiping his juicy hands on her velvet muzzle. She snorts playfully and lips his hand, searching for more, but his mind wis elsewhere. “Taking the garrison commander’s word that the hills were free of bandits…” He stops, shaking his head. “Six pages are alive because one of them had the presence of mind to conduct a proper defense. _One_. What does that say about my methods as a teacher?”

“It says you’re still learnin’, even after all these years,” Stefan replies stolidly. “Ye never get too old t’ learn, Wyl-boy.”

Wyldon’s faraway eyes sharpen, and he looks down at his old friend with surprise. “You haven’t called me that in years.”

Stefan grins lazily. “Aye. Does a man good to remember he’s still a boy at heart.”

“How did you get to be so wise?” Wyldon mutters, selecting a hoof-pick from the rack on the wall. “Don’t answer that.”

The head hostler laughs, slow and rich. “If I ’ad a copper bit for every time ye asked me that, I’d be a rich man. Easy there, she’s got somethin’ in ’er frog.”

Wyldon pauses and lifted the pick away carefully, keeping Heart’s foreleg cradled against his leg. “What is it?”

“Dunno. Stone, mebbe.” Ambling to his feet, Stefan runs his hand along Heart’s side and bends to inspect the lifted hoof. “Nah. Splinter. What ya been doin’, miss, kickin’ your stall door?” His voice falls to a soothing murmur as he feels gently with his gnarled fingers for the offending splinter. When he's pulled it free, he straightens up and holds it to the light. “Nah. Picked it up on your stroll.” He slaps her rump affectionately and returns to his perch. “Nice afternoon for a ride.”

“Yes. I’ve a few weeks reprieve until the next training season.” With a groan, Wyldon releases the hoof and straightens. “Mithros, I hate getting old.”

Stefan cackles. “Ye complain worse’n an old biddy.”

Wyldon just _hmphs_  in reply, and moves to the next hoof.

“You’ve got somethin’ on your mind,” Stefan observes, leaning back against the stall door and folding his hands over his stomach. The knight glares up at him from his task.

“Don’t you have some work to do, hostler?”

“Nope,” comes the cheerful reply. “So ye might as well tell me.”

Grumbling under his breath, Wyldon finishes Heart’s hooves and throws the pick back into the rack. “It’s Mindelan. For the life of me I can’t pin that girl down. As soon as I assign a new weakness to her, she defies it.”

Stefan examines his nails idly. “Not to mention her excellent commandin’ abilities.”

“Don’t even get me started,” Wyldon mutters. “Is there any fresh water around here?”

“In t’ rain barrel, same as always. Your avoidin’ t’ question.”

Again Wyldon is silent as he seizes two buckets and ducks outside to fill them. It's a clean summer day, with just the slightest tinge of coolness in the air suggesting autumn’s approach. The scent of fresh-cut hay drifts over the stable-yard, and he breathes it in, savoring the familiar sweetness before heading back inside.

“She’s the best page I’ve trained in years,” he says bluntly, tipping the buckets over Heart. She shakes her mane violently in appreciation, sprinkling both men with water. “Absolutely the best, and I can’t reconcile it except to say that I’ve been a great bloody fool for most of my life.”

“Well,” Stefan observes, “at least ye have the courage t’ admit it, aye?”

Wyldon is sorely tempted to make a face at him, but resists. Instead he throws one of the buckets at his head. Stefan catches it, laughing.

“Temper, temper, milord,” he chides. “The gal’s terrified o’ heights, isn’t she? And she got herself, five pages, and a dog up a cliff face while under attack.”

“I know what she did,” Wyldon snaps. Then, scowling, “You’re one of the few people who can provoke my temper on a regular basis, and by Mithros, you get me every time.”

“I’ve been takin’ lessons from Queenscove,” comes the unhelpful reply.

Wyldon snorts, and begins slicking the water from Heart’s hide with a bristle-brush. “Father or son?”

Stefan sniggers. “Both.”

“I have a second bucket here if you’d like to press your luck,” Wyldon offers.

“No thank ye. I’ll jes’ sit and watch ye work.” At his friend’s suspicious glance, Stefan holds up his hands. “I’m head hostler, Wyl, I can do what I like. An’ what I like is watchin’ ye work while I jes’ put my feet up.”

“Oh, aye. Should I tell Vivienne to be concerned?”

“Pshaw! I’m not fightin’ her for _your_ old carcass. She can ’ave that all to herself.”

“You think you’re so funny. What would George say if he knew his old friend was eyeing his wife’s worst enemy?”

“Eyein’ isna actin’, Wyl-boy, and I’ve done that an’ more. I’m perfectly content w’ my horses now, ye know that.”

“Yes, I do. And I’m perfectly discontent with my little string of ducklings.”

“Haw! An’ ye do look the mother duck, wit’ t’ whole line of ’em trailin’ behind ye…”

“Thank you, Stefan, for that impeccable metaphor. Make yourself useful and start polishing my tack.”

“Of course, milord, right away, milord. Silk or cotton rag?”

“Silk! Mithros, Stefan, you had to ask?”

“Aye, aye, I know. It’s jes’ your shoulders is so nice and muscular when ye move ’em like that, I’m distracted no end…”

“Stefan, close your mouth. What if there were one of your impressionable young stable-hands about?”

“Then they’d know a sight more than we did when we was their age.”

“Heart, bite him.”

“She won’t. Says she doesn’t understand why two old stallions like us are frolickin’ like a pair o’ foals in the sunshine.”

“I resent the term _frolicking_.” With a last flick of his brush, Wyldon sighs and steps away. “We are conversing like two perfectly respectable people of our venerable age and standing.”

Stefan muffles laughter behind his arm. “Venerable, hey? That’s a good ’un.”

“Yes, well.” Wyldon turns Heart into her stall and closes it before slumping onto the spare few inches of hay bale. After a surreptitious glance to see that they are alone, he lets his hand drop to lay over Stefan’s thigh. “Only in public.”

Stefan closes his eyes and leans back, grinning as he laces his fingers with Wyldon’s. “’Tis a good thing we’re not in public, then, wouldn't you say?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fresh + cotton + lazy afternoon + friends + fruit

**Author's Note:**

> sun + discussions + summer + friends + riding
> 
> I'm moving some of my older stuff over here from FFN for better organization. :)


End file.
